Acid Face
a Mac Crary Editorial
6/6/17
Dali wrote, “the reason the fire in Rembrandt’s paintings burns dim is because its flame is eternal.” It is a sentiment belonging to the spirit of Czech intellectuals like Ivan Svitak and the Italian anti-fascist Ignazio Silone. By what do we measure the wormlike confederacy that was brokered by Pentagon-Disney using such experienced writers as Martha Gellhorn for the AIDS holocaust? Does the dim fire finally falter?
Faith is always, however misplaced, if genuine and built on love, a little bit touching; group solidarity’s appetite to see it subordinated to considerations is a grindstone for poetic lament. What however do you say when a terrible touchstone reveals a nauseating truth?
I know that some people spend breezy summer Saturdays gazing at kites flying over parks. This fact makes a perilous choice out of where to begin. The soft fall of distant landings, sway and hovering depends so much on a turn of the wind. Where in fact does it begin? With incidents? In parallels that may exist between Olga Havel and Jeannie Tamburro? One somewhat known, the other unrivaled obscure; both profound women who changed history.
Parallels and simultaneity play in the past are in this field of memory driven by trends of different message content, some forging signals by the same symbol. Here’s an incident to really paint this madness by. Olga Havel provided such support and romantic recovery to the beleaguered writer Vaclav Havel that I poured my heart out into a eulogy when learning of her death that so moved Milena Czerna of Committee of Goodwill that he answered with an encomium. The love was surely a deep friendship between Olga and Vaclav, just as you can see the poem I wrote about my own friend and salvation deaf Jeannie in this link to a homeless newspaper from Seattle: http://realchangenews.org/2010/06/23/poem-my-girlfriend While I wrote, Havel’s mission house and partners in ferocious libel from Hollywood set upon my loved one Jeannie Tamburro and brutally raped her as an acid test of significant separate reality from the loyalists of King Crimson. In time this was to darken my view of Martha Gellhorn.
How bout dat voice again? To deal with the iffy is how it gotta go. The bus, car or sidewalk exists, we all agree, we take it for granted. The CIA does not exist, we take that for granted, too. You can say it does, point to their headquarters in Langley, Virginia, but everyone knows that’s just Mad Magazine shit, not to be entered, not for a moment, no way, into discussion except maybe if some lame soldier of fortune hippy has heard about paraquat in a sidebar of Bud Magazine, then he can use an asterisk and say *CIA (hahaha).
Where did we learn in the 1980’s about such things as the Liquid Crystals Institute? Tavistock? MK-Ultra Experiments? Laurel Canyon? Society for Human Ecology? All campus teams from the Central Intelligence Agency experimenting on students with poisonous substances, illicit liaisons and various so-called friendships of a dirty war direction. One such source was on campus speaking tours. His name is John Stockwell and he confessed to many actions, including torture, and operations in Africa that he said killed millions of people. Making himself a dark horse from the new left, he had a lot of influence in Hollywood, Geffen Corporation and Buckingham Palace. He came to Allentown, PA on my birthday, after the 1987 Wall Street Crash, when the Palace admitted that they were unconcerned and unaffected by AIDS.
Stockwell has a lot of twists and turns. He is an anecdote man. He describes a special society who study the most horrific suffering that can imaginably be inflicted on a human being, in terms of pain. Since there are many grueling methods of torture, some of them infamous from the days of Gestapo practitioners in German concentration camps, you can be sure the rivalry and arguments about which torture is the best are arcane with imperial wizardry, magical and mysterious to the authors.
Tami Simon, not to be confused with T. Simon Farasani, has a studio called Sounds True in Boulder. I visited Boulder once because it was in the Almanac as the largest city in America one year not to have had a murder. In the bathroom of a friend of Glenn MacKenzie of Pittsburgh was a Tweetie Bird doll hanging from the ceiling over a disturbingly spray painted toilet, with hooks through it, half melted, and defaced innumerable ways of a sort that Wm. Blaaty might have described in a spree by a spirit needing exorcism. Tami Simon wrote in her notebook, “I, the dreamer, clinging yet to the dream, as the patient clings to the last, thin, unbearable instant of agony in order to sharpen the savor of the pain’s surcease.” If you just change that around just a little bit, you get closer to the storyline in weapon: “You the dreamer, clinging yet to the dream, as a patient clinging to the last, thin, unbearable instant of agony in order to sharpen the savor of the pain’s surcease.” Stockwell proclaimed that the worst thing in watching a woman being tortured was in how she reached out to her tormentors, reasoned with them, just exactly as though they were human.
The drivers of buses in India say that it is safer for a woman being raped on a bus to cooperate, but when it comes to the thrill kill cult of John Stockwell in the dungeons of Warhol Museum serving Yoko Ono, as Gellhorn said of Dachau, “it did no man ever any good whatsoever to cry out from this place.” I have described kidnapping, mutilation and the thrall of cyberstalkers for years to a government that feeds the perpetrators and slips them gold. They threaten our children, my eyes, with impunity from our school, and to no avail either tears or crying terror.
Prestige is authority and sometimes is just all stored up to throw away. Trying to understand why means being forbidden, and this construct against everything we feel and believe to be right in freedom of expression is not in the least where you would think to find Martha Gellhorn. The strange way she wrote to me, a man she betrayed, is a motherlode of revulsion. Someone is obviously right or wrong. Is it those who have the powerful broadcast systems or a poet, cheated by poison of sound, refused the right to be heard? The question suggests one of two possible answers, the one that must never be allowed voice, for the other isn’t arguing, simply announcing its righteousness. There, we gloat, or you do gloat, it ends, like a dead brother, like a pawn.
When entering the world of theory, we find contenders for the status of principle theory, back up theories and counter-theories, or the truth being so named. The extreme violence and secrecy with groups like Blackwater are defended is done in the name of the flag. If you oppose them you are unpatriotic and intellectuals are often the first to recognize and reject empty jingoism and bullydom. This leads to speaking out against actions in a way that weakens the dissident ideologically. The AIDS attack was done in the name of the flag. They conceptualized me as the final humanist. They played a shell game in Hollywood against the people’s right to know and timely warning. How it worked we know a little.
James Dean once said the only greatness available to man is immortality. They considered the script they wrote a sale of derision about a hate object. They swore that any other approach would lead to an undeserving white being put into a glamorous condition of recognition. Making this intelligible has been squelched by fancy academic footwork by those who shortchanged America’s Right to Know Laws in favor of announcing the supremacy of sacred witchcraft. The role in grandiosity, about which I was kept in the dark, was played against rumors started about me by WQED and its immediate circle. There was Miles Kirshner over on Clyde Street. The Convent of Central Catholic, Christian Scientist, the Friends Meeting, WQED, an Aztec sacrifice organization called Ark/Artek, Rodef Shalom, all of this circle could be called keepers of the sacred Unifaun from Dealey Plaza and the covenant of abortion stigma, last but never least the tiled floor of a housing office, adorned with the Haukenkreuze. Hollywood didn’t want to tell, they wanted to show.
Sigmund Freud to me is about the baby pacifier, thumb-sucking, adolescent obsessively mastrubating way that Oliver Stone joneses to be Adolf Hitler. A psychological fact of the doorway to Hollywood’s subconscious that genuine is not in the least irrelevant to the plague pact frenzy he unleashed in Pittsburgh. This cryptic situation comes to a still life moment in time at Pitt when Bayer shook hands with Primo Levi (errata: https://www.joc.com/holocaust-linked-firm-apologizes-survivor_19951220.html ) over a new pact in the name of Zylon B. Oliver Stone was in the sound booth to assure the world, “we can do it better,” kinder and gentler.
Mother deliverance lambasted the world about me, “Jim is very anti-drug,” but told me privately, “don’t complain, because marijuana is legal now.” A bud for the buddies. How generous the halo of the Hitler Nuns in the painting I grew up under. They called me chosen but what hideous personality do we find behind the mask of such choosers?
They had me in the dark but driven by faith in them. I surrendered to them sibilant cognition, severely traumatized, conflicted dispatches from the scrambled situation that engulfed me, scribbling in my notebooks, “someone give them flutes,” and “their epistemology is contempt for the Beatles,” and yet notice that my having listened to the British progrock music of my era is cited as proof of my guilt. So if they were receiving these dispatches as they are detonating musical ideas to affirm the living identity of the afflicted from this to have been planned, which it was as the incriminating total structure of the foundation of the cleansing (clean up time) they were saying in their dark, old Germanic tongue, “Ve vill withhold what ve know about the mortal struggle for acceptance until the “education” is underway.” This thread is conspicuous in the calamatarian leadership Robert Fripp provided in the lead up to the sale. The militarianism was then provided as accompaniment of soothsay, death of innocents as elixir for tranquility. The serum of disturbing chicanery called logo-therapy by Primo Levi’s partner Victor Frankl and his plastic reality fans. Supporting Israeli extremists, with the bluster of chivalry in tow, made even Martha Gellhorn unbearably shameful.
Much of this came masked as simple corruption in Pittsburgh, the sort of place that does in fact have an undercurrent that Trump was elected to protect. Many of them are black and have been around for ages. They responded to this situation with what they knew best, provincial mob crimes. It spoke for America whose subcultures were eager to jump aboard Obama’s ship with the street fashion sensuousness of a victim swag. The beauty of it is that some things things do just happen, so the British conceived a style of Yojimbo warfare, last man standing, one hidden agency hitting two larger sides so they fight and weaken each other, equalizing the power between those who still have some morality and those in acoomplice of the AIDS attack by stagey hocus pocus feudalism directed by the killers. An unsolved mystery they announce must be solved by a counter unsolved mystery, hitting both sides from the same source. Over the hurdle the public went into plastic reality, where Walt Disney opened his second fantasy kingdom on the day JFK was gunned down, to the voice of Jimmy Carter’s words against sin of the heart. Imagine was suddenly real, and only morality phony.
Obama stepped onto the stage as a mighty big pimp behind his boy George. Barack’s neo-Machiavellian contempt came wild with enthusiasm for hatred against a white liberal child, selected and confused, that is shared contempt by the Ku Klux Klan that Peter Gabriel declared in the mood, whilst trampling on a flower, a séance from Elizabeth Taylor and Elton John for nothing less than a race-less, multicultural Neo-Social Darwinism. The secret society that Ralph Proctor dreamed of from ancient African glory, the Elders Project of high wizards of all-knowingness, had no less a fugitive from Devo in charge than Brian Eno impinging like a sacred popper pill on the effervescent needs of his suburb aspiring Queer Seattle flock. The role of forensic assertive psychiatry in the AIDS attack was loud and clear. They stalled with the word pushy about the HIV negative slave in bondage, in a slovenly turn-the-tables game. Seattle practiced conscription of the mind into the most effete social taboos, gutterals circulated, aping Oliver Stone, calling me a “deeply flawed man,” mindless not only of the horrible nerve agent poured under my face by those who hated the Queers until the time came to bribe them, as they were mindless of the Marilyn Monroe slurs behind their attacks on a question of character evoked to bring stigma and blame upon JFK after they drove him down a marked lane in a food fight of meager rations. Liberalism was the only archetype they refused to acknowledge. The idea of Queer pedophiles slapping five over a brutal Nazi trick of that magnitude is the totality of Sir McCartney’s contribution to 21st century social history. You call it secret? It’s a goddamn gargantuanism.
Foreign England cannot control their rock stars. They should have found it in their hearts to understand what really happened.
The first shot in Dealey Plaza hit Kennedy in the throat because it was aimed at the voice of America, and soundtrack uploaded from Reagan’s the killers, where he said, “I’ll do all the talking.” He did all the talking, by not telling, by the way. There is a book in Japan now called: The Strange Child. Japan is an ideal environment in some ways for children, although to be sure a new element of true fear has been added by Fukushima, but the plot line of HitlerReagan’s semiotics reveals that not all is true around the children and they are sincere and misled. The CIA is about lying. The strange child may confront the idea that internalizing deception is necessary to adult approval. This would create a yin and yang tensity hollow in the darkness of thought, due to the superb conditions for honesty around them. To teach our own children malicious gloating in the road rage manner of Queer Seattle isn’t even a divided self, it is the destruction of what we mean by civilization.
Martin Luther King was dogged by black people howling at him with derision, “Dah Lawd!” The same types set up Dah Lawd Today Clinics for Clean Up Time.
Jimmy Crary wasn’t even in puberty when Tive and Ono launched their horrible blindside slaughtering attack. He had no words to describe this call of the void. The hostage takers poured horrible mindsets into his deafening ears, for later extrusion by Jaime Carbonell’s so-called Natural Language research extrusion plan, a deeply impacted comatonic soundtrack from Neva Corporation that gave Carnegie what they needed for Clinton to form an alliance between relay operators in human trafficking with Adrian Belew. The situation was reduced to an inflated game of kill the shock jock that Black Panthers, working with the Postal Workers Union, called a barbeque. 911 was also unleashed in the name of the flag. “When in doubt,” Rick Apple used to say, “eat a pawn.”
When people have money and a slovenly disposition towards the very honest among us, or the poor, but beautiful, in communities that often raise children to love the one you are with, these manipulative types realize that many of us are up for grabs if trusting, and this erodes the fabric of our commonwealth into what it has become. You don’t mess with Texas because they have entirely fallen into a prisoner-guard culture symbiosis that the British want to nail down all over the country using Yoko Ono’s enthusiasm for prison gangs and their war games. Obama is a knight in many Disney conjurings, defeating illusions provided by company control, never scathed. Notice how everything was in place for Muhammed Ali to come bellowing to the defense of Yoko Ono’s honor, while George Takei was uploaded for the planet’s future with the grimace of Steve Hawking and the key to Ultrahigh: Nancy Reagan, a reminder of the old salon days of Tony Curtis and the future of E.T. Obama said the blindside attack on a child could be safely derided with victim swag. It was insightful crowd manipulation, but then what is Harvard united with the Oxford Crimson?
There was an episode of Maude in which she put down John Wayne until then end when he walked on set and she melted into his arms. John Stockwell told a story in Africa of an ugly white mercenary who boasted that women didn’t want a prince, they wanted an ugly little troll like him, and Stockwell grinned, “to my eternal amazement, he was right.” Thos. Gordon used to hum that contempt for the sickly son of the Czarina had united the Russian peasants and that the worst fate for Adolf Hitler was to see his beloved Germany in the arms of those who defeated him. Stockwell, the master of horrific torture crimes, had Martha Gellhorn falling into the arms of Gen. Franco with the words all a whistle, “Oh, Mr. Wayne!” by evoking the tragedy of little Jimmy. Together they burned the invisible in the name of fake news, lies and slogans. This was the role of forensic assertive in the AIDS attack, to tie the tongue of warning with the stall of Leni Reifenstahl in Duzzledorf, a grander spectacle Neva never vowed. Gellhorn took to the catcall of schaedenfreude over a letter to Leslie Katz saying the opposite of what they claimed, as the research on Gail Burstyn turned up the strange fact that if Orson Welles really met Hitler in Vienna it was at the burial of Geli Raubal.
The most shocking thing of all was what Nelson Harrison called Black Psychology. If the queerbait didn’t have anything to hide, why would it be afraid? They didn’t allow answer, they never do. The queerbait didn’t know what they were hiding, that they were hiding a neuroplasm, he only knew the horrible torture and suffering and the surrounding plastic impingements on his reality which without trial the military announced by which they could find anything make believe to be actionable. That is the terribly deviant crime they burned my notebooks by and stole my letter from Martha Gellhorn, drawing a sadistic curve from seduction by Sisters of Mercy and the rape of deaf Jeannie to the slashing of Shannon Harps and an Unidentified Registered Nurse who belongs on the dock in Nuremberg.
